


Cut the tension with a knife

by SkinIsCrawling



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Choking, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rough Sex, kind of, only for ch1 and ch2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinIsCrawling/pseuds/SkinIsCrawling
Summary: The park never burned, agreements were never betrayed and werewolves were never decapitated. The tenuous truce between Rodriguez and LaCroix is navigated in a dim hotel room, and things occasionally get a little unprofessional.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez
Comments: 27
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay, i just wanted to write vague, dramatic vamp intrigue, and smut............ so, here is some vague, dramatic vamp intrigue, with gratuitous smut :P hope u enjoy "^_^
> 
> MILLIONS of thanks to nosferlife for help editing, and for listening to my half-baked plot rambles :D

An insidious chill had seeped into LaCroix's office.

It was not a sensation that usually meant anything to the Prince, but this night, it only roiled the air, setting it alive between an endless volley of barbed accusations and deflected questions. The brittle tension strained between himself and the Kindred stood primly before his desk, a faint sneer flickering over his features.

Exchanges with Strauss were always like this, these nights. The Regent had taken to snapping at his tail, regurgitating any glimpse of vulnerability with cold efficiency, to find the one with which he could pin LaCroix and strike. The dominant topic of the night had been a small assault upon his Chantry, treated with such _gravity_ \- as if it were even a fraction of what his own tower had been put through. The Prince kept his face steady as he sat, motionless, with hands knotted tightly upon cold wood.

The moment that Strauss paused, settling his hissing tongue, LaCroix threw a deliberate glance towards his clock, then back to the Tremere. His chin was raised in an informative way - a way that told the Prince he considered the meeting sat firmly within his own terms. "I do hope that was all," he said, barely resisting hissing the words out.

"One final thing," said Strauss, "concerning the agreement that you have discussed with Rodriguez."

LaCroix narrowed his eyes. "What of it?"

"He cannot be excluded as a suspect. The Anarch threat grows for as long as any leniency allows his group's mindset to fester," LaCroix bit his tongue, preventing himself from commenting that _anyone_ had a reason to attack his Chantry, with the aggressive rate he was bloating his Tremere nest placing it as a most appealing target. "I would like to review the agreement, between myself and my fellow Primogen. Such that there aren't any... _misunderstandings_ , on the terms."

"The terms-" _Are none of your concern, Regent._ "-are to remain between us. I assure you, I will and do discuss any infractions that may be linked to him and his associates."

Strauss raised one brow. "Such is the absolute minimum of what would be expected. With all due respect, there has been a history, within your domain, of more... hazardous pursuits in the place of genuine solutions, and I beg you to give the matter some thought."

"Thank you, Strauss," bit LaCroix, "you are dismissed."

His glare was piercing even dimmed behind his spectacles as Strauss lingered for second too long, before offering him a small, curt nod. LaCroix glowered at the back of his garish coat as he left, hands still tight upon his desk. Had he truly made reference to that damned sarcophagus, again? His nerve was only growing with each passing night, his eagerness to gloat over a catastrophe long-passed tipping into petty territory.

Strauss was convinced he would have opened it. The month surrounding its arrival had been a frantic haze, and though it was true that LaCroix could not say for certain he had not been considering more drastic measures, he had acted upon none of his thoughts. Yet Strauss had the gall to jab at him with that accusatory tone as though he had pried the box open himself - or better yet, to imply that it was _his_ fault that accursed fledgling had seized his chance, key brandished from whatever crevice he had snatched it from. Under the threat of a backstabbing madman - wielding a Sabbat mob, no less - LaCroix had been given no choice but to relent under the threat of his final death, and that of half the Camarilla.

The year had ended in a blazing explosion he had narrowly avoided being present for, and now, the early winter months ushered in the navigation of treacherous rubble. LaCroix pressed his fingers to his mouth, frowning at the ceiling of his rebuilt office -the room was not quite what it had been before, somehow, the light holding a cooler tinge that left an inexplicably barren feeling to its walls. The door clicked shut as the Regent departed.

Strauss had been correct on one matter - there were several topics that needed discussion with a certain Brujah, in order to continue to balance the precarious truce, hastily formed from the remains of a misplaced bloodhunt. He knew what the Anarch would say, if he brought the Chantry up -that not every ounce of his failing grasp was his fault, that he didn't have the manpower to attempt such a thing even if he wanted to, that perhaps he should try to clear the smoking debris from the last Sabbat attack before he pointed a finger his way. LaCroix closed his eyes, slowing his racing mind before his night would resume. Thoughts of Rodriguez could wait, for just a few hours more.

\---

Even in one of the quieter, dimmer districts of Los Angeles, the lights shone brightly upon the road. The grit was glossed beneath rain pouring down in sheets, the city's noise garbled to a calmly predictable din, as LaCroix stepped before the double doors of a building that he knew had once been white. Now, it peered onto the road with a grey gloom - had that cracked window been there, the last time? He was starting to doubt that anything he threw at this pit of a city would stop its determined decline.

He ignored the minimal effort of a welcoming smile from the receptionist, shoving past the few lingering patrons through the small lobby choked with thick cigarette smoke - he usually threw some precautious semblance of politeness towards kine, but the night had been far too long for that. This hotel had never been a building he had particularly favoured, and it was certainly not somewhere he desired to be at that very moment - but it passed adequately enough as neutral ground, somewhere to make the gutter-dwelling Anarch feel more _accommodated_. Turning down one final hallway, drenched in just as much staleness as the rest of the establishment, the Ventrue stopped before the door to which both he and Rodriguez owned a key.

The room was dark and still, as expected, and a much more cramped space than he was used to occupying, despite it being one of the larger suites. A flick of a switch and one bulb lazily drifted to life, dimly illuminating one round table and two opposing chairs. They had been strategically positioned so that if there were, say, a rather strong vampire with a brutal temper and a seething grudge on one end of it, an impulsive lunge towards the other occupant would not be an easy feat. He worried about that sort of thing less, now - even with a few threads of tension lingering between them, he doubted that his final death was what occupied the Brujah's mind. The one window of the room looked out only into a dismal alleyway, but LaCroix wrenched the thin curtains shut regardless.

He wondered whether he knew - of those dotted about the building alerted specifically to his presence, of the fact that a single shout within this 'neutral ground' would have a gun at the Brujah's throat, and that a true scream would have a Nagloper's sword straight through it. It was a terrible shame that the false bloodhunt still lingered freshly in the mind of the city, and behind the eyes of those who looked upon him - else, it would have been _effortless_ to have the Brujah reduced to ashes, scrubbed from this stained carpet and cleanly vanished by the next evening. LaCroix settled into the chair facing the door - an uncomfortable thing with paint chipping from its arms - and waited.

After the sound of two soft chimes, a quick opening of his mobile phone confirmed that, yes, ten minutes had indeed elapsed from the agreed upon time. The Brujah did so love to make a point of not valuing his time - though he supposed that the productivity of these rendezvous had dwindled so far that the minutes held very little intrinsic value, anyway. He took the quiet moments as an opportunity to breathe the stale air and prepare himself - to push his face and form into what they needed to be. Rodriguez tended to bite at him when he attempted professionalism, the man's sullen resentment boiling over into a wholly ineffective discussion if he dared to act as though their stations as Prince and demagogue were anything but equal. It had taken some time, some careful poking at his words and a subtle exertion of his disciplines, before he had found what had worked.

He cast aside the vexations of the night, reforming his bitter, burning frustration into something the Brujah might find more tolerable. Something rather more uncertain, his face void of any harsh confidence. He suspected Rodriguez couldn't stand being anything less than the most powerful man in the room - why else would he surround himself with puerile mobs that hung onto his every word without challenge? - and he could play to that, even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A clicking lock broke his thoughts. The door opened, flooding the room with a warm light against a sturdy silhouette. He widened his eyes further than he would normally allow himself, tilting his head upwards quickly and fluidly in what would pass for organic, hopeful surprise as the other man entered the room.

There was something more lifelike to Rodriguez than most Kindred. His gaze moved with natural and cautious curiosity and he did not tend to fall into unnatural stillness as often, effortlessly mimicking the living - or perhaps doing so with great conscious effort, LaCroix did not know. When he approached, however, the grey of his skin and the sharp shine of his eyes betrayed him, and his tentatively warmer demeanour faded as he fixed LaCroix with a stony stare, acknowledging him with a brusque nod. The stifling silence was broken only by his footfalls and the lashing of rain upon glass as he took his own seat across the table. The Ventrue offered a small, courteous smile, and though it was not returned, the Brujah's nettlesome scowl did smooth, just a fraction.

"Rodriguez," he said, careful to balance the line between expected etiquette and forced warmth. "I trust you are well."

The Brujah set one arm down on the table, leaning inwards with eyes narrowing on him, as LaCroix kept his back straight and hands neatly folded. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Let's get this done."

The agreement was a simple thing on paper - the tangled mess of the false bloodhunt would be put behind them, and Rodriguez's resources would be put to collaborative use against the Kindred of the East. The complication lay, of course, in how, and where - a quick strike against their leader had proven a simple enough task with enough manpower, but Xiao's death had not dissuaded the Kuei Jin. It had instead obscured them into a more amorphous target, still too great in number and strength to completely purge, yet too elusive to easily uproot.

He forced himself to sit and listen, meekly taking on Rodriguez's every word on the matter, lest the man start to think that this entire thing was not worth his time. He did have to admit, the Brujah had a certain ring to his voice - he spoke of how they might fix the city's ills with a combination of confidence and authenticity that was not often found amongst their kind. Such had always been his unique speciality.

He made sure to settle Rodriguez's most pressing issues - a string of recent deaths at the hands of one particularly powerful lurking Cathayan, so deep in Anarch territory that they had slipped past LaCroix entirely. After agreeing to throw an agent or two its way, face beset with enough doubt and hesitance to imply he was doing him a great kindness, a steady silence fell. The clock ticked onward for a few seconds more. "I gather that you are aware of the recent attack on the Chantry?"

"'Course I am. Figured something like that wouldn't mean much to... those types - building's barely scratched." 

"It doesn't. None were harmed, as far as I know. The incident, however, remains a concern - we have not yet been able to confirm it as Sabbat. The fact that someone out there could have the intent and motivation for such a direct assault on a high-profile member of the Camarilla is alarming, you must understand, and every possibility needs to be considered."

Nines scoffed. "You think I did it."

"Not you-"

"Fine, someone with me - same thing, as far as you're concerned, right? Why else would you bring this up?"

"Because I _have_ to, Rodriguez. Knowing these things is my concern, and the Regent-" He allowed his tone to take a ragged edge to it, breaking away into a tense silence before a quick, sharp sigh. "He suspects you, or your cohorts. This agreement has never sat easily with him, and he wants answers."

"Well, now you know what to tell him."

He nodded. Rodriguez's answer was laughable, of course - LaCroix knew he thought himself above explaining himself to the Prince. If the Ventrue didn't know better, he would have had him staked for questioning on the spot. The Brujah's hand had clenched tightly upon the table. "...I already did, you know."

He received no words - the shadows shifted beneath his eyes as Rodriguez cocked his head in question.

"I told him that I doubted you would do something like that."

The Brujah blinked, brow furrowing in thought. "...right. Thanks," he said, finally.

LaCroix offered another small, solemn smile, and in the cold half-light, perhaps it was returned.

"Why wouldn't it be Sabbat, anyway?" he asked, the sharp edge to his words ebbing. "They've been getting cocky lately."

"I have noticed," said LaCroix, barely catching the bite in his tone - how wilfully blind did he think he was? That fledgling's brief stint with the Sect had revitalised it, somehow, his shadow still looming over Los Angeles long after his final death. "It likely was, but they have made no attempt to claim it, and the single attacker is only unidentifiable ash. As I said, it is only that every possibility needs consideration -" He sighed. "You don't need to hear this. Apologies."

The Ventrue pushed his chair away to stand, keeping his poise elegant as he moved to where Rodriguez sat. As he met his gaze, he began to subtly call his vitae - gentle, but enough to ease away the piercing point to the Brujah's eyes upon him. It was time for the evening to progress to its next stage, he decided, as he stood before the other man.

"Unless you had any direct concerns for me, I would not wish to waste any more of your time," he said, lowering his voice. 

Rodriguez got to his feet, and LaCroix had positioned himself in such a way that he would slip a fraction too close. He could smell the musk that clung to his chest, and had to lean his head upwards ever so slightly. As he continued to hook the man's attention with his disciplines, he leant inwards with fingers twitching to grab at the Brujah's broad shoulders - however, what _he_ wished to do was not the point of all this. 

A hint of a smirk toyed at his lips as he appraised LaCroix, the slow hesitance of his movements fading as he was pulled closer. "That really all you call me out here for?" The fact that it had been Rodriguez to waste his evening with a late arrival sat at the tip of his tongue, but of course, he said nothing. Rodriguez preferred it when he said little. So, LaCroix only maintained his careful eye contact with the Brujah, moving further into the pliancy that he knew he found appealing as he allowed one hand upon his waist, pushing him backwards against the small table.

 _This_ had begun after a few of their meetings, when he didn't think that Rodriguez was aching to riddle him with bullets but an echo of a passionate sort of rage still lingered within him, and his emotionally compromised attention had been easy to snatch and warp without notice. LaCroix had lunged for it the second that he had thought the Brujah would be susceptible to this sort of thing, hazy half-plans spiralling in his mind as he stooped to disgracing himself with his rival.

"If you have ought to attend, I won't keep you."

Nines' fingers tightened their grasp on his waist, his jaw tipping upwards as he scoffed once more. "I know." 

Then, another large hand was around his waist, and he was unceremoniously turned to brace over the decrepit hotel table.

The degradation of the position was an undeniable truth that ran cold through his veins, though it would make things easier - he didn't have to keep up that vulnerable, stricken little look that had ensnared the Brujah, and instead simply enjoy this moment for whatever it was before it played its grander role. The broad body of the other man was on him quickly, his hard and strong form pinning him in place as he could feel his cock thickening against his thigh, even through several layers of clothing. His rugged scent was almost choking as a hand reached around to fumble at his buttons, his forearms so powerfully thick and enticingly veined, wrenching up his coat to gather it about his waist. His movements were a touch swaying and sluggish as the warmth of his disciplines seeped into the room, filling the air with a heavy desperation. It almost seemed to affect himself, too - or perhaps it was only the way that Rodriguez's rough hands groped at his own hardening cock, efficiently ridding him of any clothing that dared to stand in the Brujah's way.

"Suck," he commanded roughly, shoving a few of his filthy fingers into his face. As if LaCroix didn't know he'd started bringing lubricant to meet him - he opened his mouth regardless, allowing him to push his fingers inside, his cold skin bitter and foul against his tongue. He did as requested, however, wetting them as much as he could as the other man began to jab them demandingly into his throat. With his attention caught on not giving a choking retch, he only distantly heard the click of a lid and the hurried clinking of a belt buckle.

He had been with few men as impatient as Rodriguez, but that was to be expected, all things considered. It could have even been the reason why any of this had happened - because of some base fantasy of roughly fucking him into submission harboured by the Brujah, perhaps. He was not going to ask. Instead, LaCroix only gasped and held tightly onto the edge of the table as the fingers withdrew from his mouth and, a few quiet moments later, he pressed two fingers inside of him in one rough thrust. The quick stretch was careless, spreading his own saliva and some additional lubricant deep inside of him. The graceless pumping was clearly intended only to slick his rim and, and yet it still pressed in such a way that made his cock give an aching throb. He settled down onto his forearms, muffling a sigh into his sleeve.

After working three fingers inside of him, he pulled from him, and LaCroix shifted his hips in anticipation of what was to come next - but instead of the blunt, wide head of his cock against his entrance, Nines seized him with a hand tightly around his chest, pulling him upwards and flush against him. A sudden rush of odd, unexpected intimacy flooded him, until the Brujah's intentions were made much clearer with a muscular arm around his throat. 

His grip only grew tighter as he sunk his slicked cock inside slowly, and though LaCroix began to moan at the steady sink onto his admittedly rather impressive shaft, the sound came out as nothing more than a mangled choke. The Brujah groaned lowly at the noise, his hips beginning to set a pace of steady thrusts as his powerful arm squeezed around his windpipe - ah, so that was it.

As he predicted, another choke spurred the Brujah to move, dragging him along his cock with a breathtakingly strong grip. He was not rasping for breath, of course, but his cries as his shaft split him could barely be wrung into anything but feeble little noises. He would not be able to scream, he realised, should Rodriguez choose to give him a particularly undignified end. Panic flickered briefly somewhere in the back of his mind, but the way that Rodriguez grunted above him at his every noise, how his hips began to slap against him - no, he wanted him like this for an entirely different reason. LaCroix allowed it. His cock throbbed inside of him, punching out more silent, breathless cries, and despite it all, he had learned how to fuck him rather well.

As their pace grew frantic, the Brujah surprised him with a previously absent courtesy - he reached a calloused hand around to grab his aching shaft. He immediately canted his hips into any friction, his legs weakening as he tugged at him, holding him tightly and fucking into him with devastatingly strong thrusts. With a few more rough strokes smearing wetness down his cock, he finished into Rodriguez’s hand, his moans muted by his heavy forearm.

Rodriguez released his grip to instead grasp his hips, leaving LaCroix to sink his chest to the table once again. He could not help the few broken, ragged sounds that escaped him as the Brujah continued, his body quickly growing sensitive - anyone else, he would have shoved out of him by that point. He gained some pleasure, at the least, from how his groans grew gruffer with desperation, his grip on his hips almost possessively tight as, he felt his cock sheathe deeply, pulsing as he filled him. The satisfaction was almost great enough to mute the irate thought that now, he would need to wash the Anarch out of him.

Nines pulled his softening cock from him with an obscene sound, leaving seed to drip from him. He was always quick to dress, after this, and to leave the room - the Ventrue wondered, sometimes, if it was disgust or regret that pushed him to do so. LaCroix opted to, instead, slump into the nearest chair, his coat slipping from his shoulders and shirt hanging open, knowing the pathetic sight that his exhausted, half-dressed body made, for Rodriguez to look upon. 

The Anarch glanced his way after a quick redressing, fiddling with his overshirt, lips pressed dourly. 

"You can't keep doing this every time you have a rough night."

LaCroix raised a tired brow at him. "If that were the case, we'd be doing this far more often," he murmured, just a snatch quieter than he knew Nines would catch.

"What was that?"

And now, the culmination of his performance. It wasn't even hard to let the fatigue show upon his face - that part was genuine, after all. The fear, however, and the misery - that, he chose to exaggerate, as he met Rodriguez's even gaze. 

"Only that... every night is a _rough night_ , under this domain. My every effort, and yet the city continues to - to crumble, somehow-" He stopped himself dramatically, looking up at the other man with unsure eyes.

Rodriguez frowned at him, lips parting in wordless uncertainty. It vanished quickly, however, as he folded his arms. 

"You can't be serious. You put yourself in this mess, you're _keeping_ yourself in it, and now you want my sympathy?"

"And what will happen, if I withdraw? My mistakes are many, Rodriguez, as I am sure you know," he said, allowing a touch of his restrained bitterness to flare. "I can't give it up, the domain will eat me alive - they'll see me as a threat, a fool far too dangerous to keep." He sped his words, and the pace of his breathing, pushing his disciplines once more. "I do wish to leave, sometimes. Don't you find it arduous, all of this-"

"Stop."

Rodriguez was staring at him, his gaze probing. LaCroix looked away from him, composing his face into impassivity, but with brows raised in such a way for a tinge of bashful shame.

The few long moments of quiet were interrupted with a heavy sigh. "Just... get in touch next time you've got something to say to me, alright?" 

LaCroix gave a curt nod, and he did not look the Brujah's way as the door closed. He raised himself, to use the hotel's shower - he hoped that that, at least, had not become too foul.

The Brujah had not been the most receptive to his mention of leaving, but he had expected as much - that the seed was planted was all that mattered. He had time, after all, to warm him to it, and LaCroix was quite sure he had seen a sympathetic twinge in Nines' eyes as he looked at him. Rodriguez was forcing him to perfect the art of looking _pathetic_. To his relief, he did not think that he had noticed how little he had questioned him on the subject of the Chantry, either. This was... workable. Not perfected, but workable.

As the cold streams of water began to sputter, he idly wondered when he should schedule their next meeting. As much as he wished to set things in motion, he didn't wish to arouse suspicion. He would give himself a year at the most, he decided, for his two tasks - firstly, to forge a trail leading to the Brujah. After being incorrectly accused of murdering a Primogen once, he would need rather robust evidence, and a subtle approach was needed for the sake of being convincing- records of various trades in illicit weaponry, filling his schedule with hours that could not be accounted for, perhaps faking a conversation or two.

Secondly, he needed to prepare for another attack upon the Chantry.

The first had not been a true assault - it had been a mistake on the behalf of the utter fool he had sent in to covertly test the building's weaknesses, whom he had wrongly believed to have a modicum of competence. LaCroix had undertaken the momentous task of keeping his actions untraceable, yet one mishandling had so nearly exposed it all, ruined _everything_ \- thank God his ashes had been quickly scattered to the winds. A second assault, one to destroy the entire wretched building and to hopefully drag its Regent with it, was a daunting undertaking. However, his web of resources was ever-expanding, and the city's recent instability had put everyone into a sort of distracted panic.

By the end of this year, he was determined that Los Angeles would witness Strauss slain by Rodriguez's hand. Two stains of doubt upon his reign, neatly vanquished. He sagged his shoulders, unsure of exactly what he felt tugging in his stomach. Some leftover shred of guilt, perhaps - that tended to happen when his plans involved men he was fucking, for some reason or another. It did not matter. When the dead Anarch faded from his memory, this feeling would, too.


	2. Chapter 2

The Last Round had gotten quiet.

Midnight dragged past to the sound of only muffled conversation, soft enough to be muted beneath the music. Sat looking out to an unusually foggy night, Nines was alone as he carefully reassembled his newly cleaned pistol. Anyone or anything walking the streets became nothing but murky silhouettes, pushing whatever calm could be found closer to a choking unease.

The bar had been in and out of dwindling and bustling for as long as he'd known it, just like the Anarchs themselves. However, after Jack had disappeared without a trace and the streets only got bloodier, he'd noticed a sharp drop in new faces, and a sharp surge in disappearances. Starry-eyed fledglings were dying in the week, and older vampires got cold and scared and decided to go their own way or, more recently, flocked to sit timidly beneath the Camarilla.

Did he count as one of those, now? He paused, feeling the cool weight of the metal against his fingers, testing the hammer with a pull of the trigger. Not exactly, he reasoned. If he'd been dutifully reporting to Strauss or something, it would have been a different story, but keeping the unstable LaCroix under a steady eye and a tight leash was only lessening his chances of getting pulled into his ironsight. Again.

He slid the magazine into its place, and tucked his gun against his hip. Part of him wanted just a few more moments in the bar, but the smothering stillness still scratched at his veins. Standing and turning, he readied himself for another few surreal hours with the Prince. 

"You leaving?" came a brash voice.

Nines paused in his step, turning to look down at the stiff figure of Damsel, hands on her hips and an accusatory squint in her eyes.

"Yup. You know where."

"Again?" She punctuated her response with an eyeroll. "For fuck's sake. Tell me this is gonna be the time you punch his smug face in, at least."

"God, don't tempt me."

She groaned. "That demon bitch is _dead_ , wasn't that what this was all about? Go put a bullet right through him, we don't _need_ -"

"You go do it, tower's right there."

"Maybe I will," she said, a smirk twitching onto her face. It didn't reach her eyes, and it faded quickly. "...lot of us haven't been coming back lately, is all, and-"

"Yeah, I know. But out of everything in this city that wants me dead, I'm not gonna let myself get killed by _LaCroix_ , alright?"

"Right. Later," she said, though her voice had a cold bite to it. Nines nodded in response. Skelter said nothing, but raised one brow at him as he passed - not for the first time, Nines wondered whether some gossip had somehow spread of exactly what went on in their meetings. He cast the thought aside. He had wrung this truce for every last bit of use he could, for the sake of the city and everyone in it; anything else was no one's fucking business, and it wasn't on him to make anyone act like adults over it. He was getting less and less sure of exactly what LaCroix was, these nights, but that didn't change the fact that the few straggling remains of the Kuei Jin was something that needed dealing with. 

His fingers hovered near his holstered pistol as he walked the murky roads, his senses sharp and his shoulders resolutely squared. A distant cry resounded from the fog - nothing new for LA, but was there a brutal edge to it that pushed it a little closer to a growl. He moved quickly, and only when he had reached his old, weather-beaten car did he relax his tightly balled fist. 

\----

The hotel was not the kind of place he would usually be caught. A haughty building on the outskirts of town, full of twisting corridors to one room bigger than his own entire haven. The whole thing was so pointedly tinged with LaCroix, with the Camarilla - he didn't know how much of it was a petty statement. Not that he'd really been one for petty statements, recently. He looked like a different person, sometimes, in the time they shared under the faded light - his cool sneer had faded into desperation, his glare into silent apprehension. When he pushed the door open, sure enough, that anxious stare was what greeted him, quickly buried beneath aloofness.

"Rodriguez," he acknowledged.

Nines only nodded, as had become something of a routine.

LaCroix looked... ruffled. His pale fingers tapped softly where they rested on the table, though the slant of his brow was more anxious than impatient. His back wasn't so ramrod straight as usual, either - Nines' more instinctual side read his subtle slump as a submissive cower. It was then that he remembered - the Sabbat had struck hard at him again this week, and from what he'd heard, he'd barely sidestepped his final death once more. 

"Heard about that ambush. Another one, huh?" said Nines. 

"Hm? I was not aware it had affected you - I had thought all of the attackers had been dealt with. Is this incorrect?"

"No, it didn't touch us. I was just... nevermind. Shoot, then."

LaCroix cocked an eyebrow. He'd been waiting for him to start, Nines realised, without even an attempt at dominating the conversation. The Brujah raised his chin, settling comfortably into his chair, and watched him gather his thoughts with eyes cast downwards.

"Several Kindred have reported Kuei Jin sightings and encounters closer to the downtown area. Coincidences, perhaps, but if they are gathering again, they are likely planning to encroach upon my - upon both of our territory."

He could almost laugh at the blatant little placation. "You asking me to take them out?" said Nines - the Anarchs weren't running so thin that he had any problem pulling his weight in their agreement, but it would be nice if LaCroix would cut the bullshit and just _ask_ for once.

"Not at all, the reports aren't conclusive enough for such a solution," said LaCroix, voice a little snappier for one quick moment. "I'm only informing you of a threat quite possibly lurking upon your doorstep. In addition..." He trailed off, fingers ceasing their taps upon the table. 

"Yeah?"

"The numbers of my enforcers - I shall be frank, they dwindle. I cannot offer you armed bodyguards at all hours, but I can put a word out for one or two extra eyes to be trained upon your little... gathering spot, to prevent anything disastrous from happening."

LaCroix slowly interwove his fingers on the table once more, his gaze expectant. He would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted, but he knew better than to snatch up any random offer from the Prince, even under these circumstances. It was probably just an attempt to domesticate The Last Round, after all, or to plant a spy or two. Maybe it was just that, whether Nines was meeting his end or scraping onwards to another night, LaCroix wanted to be the one with the final say in it.

"Thanks, but we can handle things fine."

The Prince hummed. "As expected. I won't push the matter." His gaze darted away, a slight frown pulling at his features, before he met his eyes once more - silver and glinting through the dim shadows, with something in them a little too disarming for Nines to truly want to relax around.

"They're probably still too scattered to attack at once, anyway," added Nines.

"Yes, they seemed to have never quite regrouped, but a single rogue Cathayan is still a threat. All semantics aside, you still fall under the protection of the Camarilla. I only..." He sighed. "Be wary, Nines."

And that was where his careful composure faltered - there was a sudden warmth to his tone that rang wrong at the last second, slipping in such a way that he probably only managed to catch because he'd been spending so much fucking time with the man. But then, he caught his gaze, and he wasn't exactly sure why that was. He knew LaCroix was an actor above all, yet Nines couldn't quite say if his strained tone was outright falsehood, or just a strangled attempt by a man 200 years dead to display an emotion he didn't understand anymore.

The Brujah grit his teeth, and nodded. "I will." 

Their talks had grown long, and tiring. What had started as a hasty union beneath a clear, common goal had slipped into winding discussion, treading careful ground in a tense search for some way to stop the city from slowly burning. The areas of concern hadn't grown, exactly - the issues had only become a little more complicated than a single temple that a few extra hands could help raze. Neither of them brought up the fact that the pretence of this entire thing would crumble before long, but he could see how keenly aware LaCroix was of that fact. He made many quick half-references to the state of the city, his warnings of danger and bloodshed not quite daring to become the assertion that he wanted the Brujah safe. It was almost convincing - maybe, after that kid had stuck a knife right through his back and every other Cammy had started eyeing up his throne, Nines of all people had become the rope he was clinging to.

That fledgling had been a shame. Kid would've had his uses.

Their conversation dwindled down in the early hours of the morning, but LaCroix still looked at him intently. Nines couldn't let it end there, and he wasn't in the mood to dance around this again. He leant back in his chair, and he saw how the Ventrue looked over his arm as he rested it across its back. 

"You got anywhere to be?"

"I always do, but that's not to say I can't spare a few moments more." He flashed a small smile, more exhausted than coy.

When Nines stood, LaCroix followed immediately, looking up at him with needy eyes and fingers moving to grasp weakly at his overshirt. Seeing him like this always ignited an odd feeling - equal parts sympathy and disgust, burning out to a rage-tainted fervour that made Nines' fingers itch to grab at him somewhere other than the throat.

So, he did. It was half of what he was here for, after all.

He could feel LaCroix's sharp hipbones even through his heavy coat as he pushed him over to the gloomy, familiar bed. Little resistance was offered- only his hands sliding up over his biceps, to his shoulders, stopping before he might pull their bodies together. Nines kept replaying these moments between their meetings, and he always concluded that this was all of the Ventrue's desperately firing defence mechanisms, shoving his cock down his throat before the barrel of a gun could find its way there. Why else would he have initiated something like this, all those months ago? However, when he looked into the eyes of the man refusing to let go of him, straddling him on the bed as he pulled at his shirt, he found himself wondering if this could really all be so mercantile. 

He stopped thinking about anything like that when LaCroix brought their lips together.

He faltered for a second, fist tightening in surprise. It wasn't like they hadn't kissed before, but usually, it was towards the end, when the both of them were too far gone to really think about it. But it seemed the Ventrue was frantic, this night, grabbing at his wrists and pulling them to his clothes, silently demanding he undress him. When they pulled away from each other, he looked so much more present, running his hands over Nines' bare chest with a sharp gaze, the slow discussion of his dwindling domain no longer grinding down on him. He looked a little closer to the LaCroix who'd stormed his city - Nines felt something spark at the sight, fumbling with the buttons of his coat before wrenching it aside and pulling firmly at his tie. As he settled back on the bed, LaCroix pressed his thigh against his cock, and he felt himself growl at the pressure.

Nines grabbed at his shoulders to shove him down into the bed, pin his lithe frame between his biceps and get this done, get inside of him. He knew what would make this quick. However, Ventrue stopped him, his hand gentle at first before it resisted with a strength that caught Nines off guard. His cock ached impatiently as LaCroix looked at him with lidded eyes.

"Don't waste my fucking time if you don't want this," he snarled, harsher than he had meant. His control was always a little slippery when things got like this. 

"I do," replied the Ventrue quickly. "...lay back, won't you?"

Nines scowled hesitantly, but did as requested, leaning back into the pillows. LaCroix straddled his hips, arching his spine as he unbuttoned his own shirt. A stab of anxious vulnerability twisted in Nines' gut as he was held beneath the other vampire, but it faded as he tipped his face away almost bashfully, sliding his own shirt from his shoulders. He was a sight, Nines couldn't deny that, his slender body still trim and toned, lines flexing across his taut stomach as he moved. The Brujah followed the scant sweep of hair down his torso, to where he revealed his flushed, hard cock and pale thighs.

LaCroix reached behind himself to deftly undo Nines' jeans, long fingers taking a firm hold of his hard cock but only for a teasing moment - the Brujah growled his frustration as his hips twitched. His hands probed into his jeans - LaCroix knew which pocket he brought the lube in.

He didn't waste much time, and Nines could appreciate that - even caught up in it, they both understood that this wasn't the kind of thing they should be wallowing in. He expected LaCroix to hand him the lube, but watched as instead, he poured it over his own fingers. Nines furrowed his brow, ready to jerk away from something that he was _not_ going to give this man, even maddeningly soft on him as he'd become - but then, he saw the Ventrue's fingers delve between his own thighs.

There was a knowing glint in LaCroix's eyes before he closed them, sighing and then groaning lowly as he began to open himself, his other hand braced on Nines' chest. He could see how LaCroix's shaft was twitching and vaguely considered reaching out to stroke at it, but he was content to only lay there, watching the enthralling movements of his body as he rocked back onto his own fingers. His cock throbbed as he caught the occasional snag of friction against the Ventrue, until he was overcome with the need to be deep inside him. LaCroix opened his eyes again, barely focused enough to meet his gaze as the slick sounds of him working his hole fell quiet.

He bucked into the wet hand suddenly upon his cock, wringing it until it was dripping, the head slipping easily against LaCroix's hole. Nines reached a hand out to grab at his hips, and he thought he saw the fog in his gaze sharpen to something very different, for only a second - to the lofty, disdainful coldness he had once been so accustomed to. It vanished as LaCroix tightened his grasp around his shaft and, slowly, began to sink down onto him. 

His body was tight enough to have him hissing, fingers pressing into his hips as LaCroix slowly took him, head tilted back and his lips parting to low moans. In the seconds of stillness when he was finally fully inside him, LaCroix placed a hand on top of his own - the intimacy of their fingers brushing was new and disconcerting, but as the Ventrue started to move, he did not pull his hand away.

He dragged along his cock in a steady rhythm, soon growing rigorous in how eagerly he rocked on top of him, until Nines' hips slapped against him. The smooth, welcoming grasp of his hole had Nines throbbing inside him, and when he knelt forwards to kiss him once more, the Brujah hooked an arm around his shoulder to keep him close. His tongue was insistent and his mouth careless, moaning against him as the Brujah began to angle his thrusts just how he knew he liked - it felt so uncomfortably easy to have him there, to hold him tightly as he thrust inside of him.

With the strong grip he had on him, it was easy to pull away and force the Ventrue onto his back - his eyes were wide with surprise before Nines braced himself above him and snapped his hips sharply. LaCroix's long, sharp moan reverberated from his arched throat as Nines mouthed down it, giving a few nips to the taut tendons there.

He heard the desperate tinge to his noises, groans raising to whines as Nines slammed into him, his hole tightening frantically and squeezing around his shaft. Fingers raked through Nines' hair when he grasped between LaCroix's legs, finding his cock dripping. He toyed with his leaking head and tugged at his cock until he felt thighs squeezing around his waist, hands at his jaw guiding their mouths back together even as he moaned frantically against him. It wasn't long until LaCroix threw his head back and let out one final groan, spurting between Nines' fingers. The tight pull on his own length and the softer sounds the Ventrue made as he was fucked through his orgasm had his hips stuttering and, after a few final thrusts, he finished with a low groan.

The other man had given up feigning disgust at that, and only sighed as he filled him.

In the lull, Nines rested inside for as long as his softening cock would allow for, and the Ventrue's thighs still held him, keeping him there. LaCroix broke away from their kiss but still, his fingertips lingered on his jaw, brows pulled inwards as he stared at Nines, an alert, searching look emerging through the glassiness of his narrowed eyes.

That look was what pushed him to ask it, stupid as it was. Nines took a deep breath, and spoke lowly.

"What are you thinking?"

LaCroix's frown became sharper, his fingers slipping from Nines' face to rest on his shoulder, instead. "What kind of question is that?" he asked, somehow a little breathless.

But he still looked so _unsure_ , eyes tracking Nines so intently as he slowly pulled out, rolling over to rest beside him on the bed. Leaning on his side, beside the supine Prince, he shrugged. "Looked like there was something on your mind," he said simply. He leant just a fraction closer, propping himself up to lean over him. "You got something to say to me?"

LaCroix broke the eye contact immediately, avoiding Nines' unblinking gaze. His mouth opened yet he said nothing for a few long seconds, until finally:

"Nothing in particular, no," he answered.

He had expected nothing else from him, but it didn't stop the twinge of disappointment in Nines' chest.

"Right," said the Brujah, keeping his tone even. "You gonna stay here for a while?"

The Ventrue gave some distant sound of affirmation, pulling at the sheets and closing his eyes, until Nines leant over the side of the bed, to where their clothes lay scattered on the floor. "You're not?"

"I got a little time. Just thought I heard my phone go off," he replied.

"Oh."

Nines looked over to where LaCroix lay, checking that he had closed his eyes - he'd taken to doing that, wasting his nights under the covers, and it seemed like he wanted to leave this room less and less every time. The Brujah planted his feet on the floor and leant down to quickly rifle through the coat crumpled there, expensive black fabric soft on his fingers, until he felt the now familiar metal of a small, sleek flip phone.

"I suppose there is something on my mind," added LaCroix quietly. Nines jerked his head around but saw that the other man's eyes were still shut - he hunched over the phone as he pressed the awkward little buttons as fast as he could. That same twinge set off in his chest again as he scanned the screen, rooting deeper into a gripping, burning sickness in his gut... he forced himself not to focus on it, not now.

He finished up quickly, carefully setting the phone back into the pocket he'd found it in. "Yeah?" asked Nines, settling back onto the bed.

"...Only the fact that, if I am doing this city more harm than good, and if withdrawing were truly an option, doing so as soon as possible would be the wisest choice."

The silence was thick, and Nines didn't know what the hell he expected from him. _No shit_? To ask when he'd started considering the domain anything more than the best stepping stone he could sink his claws into? He didn't have to think about it for long - LaCroix opened his eyes and continued.

"Your Anarchs are diminishing too, aren't they?"

There was none of the smugness to be expected in the statement - it was nothing more than an empty observation, made with an ambivalent stare. Nines tightened his jaw regardless, and had he not been looking at him like that, laying still from how the Brujah had just fucked him, he was not sure whether that would have been all he had done.

"People come and go. We've been through worse."

"I see," said LaCroix, relenting immediately, but his doubtful tone set off a questioning pang in Nines' mind. "I'm sure there is... much for you here, even now."

"What are you getting at?" growled Nines.

"That the same isn't true for me." Once again, his grand statement was devoid of much emotion, except for a drained, disinterested resignation. "Save for my own final death, eventually."

And so, they were back to this. The Prince's mounting fears dumped onto him, once more - the crushing weight that he was carrying exposed for him to see. Nines had always known that LaCroix was out of his depth, but now, he'd gotten used to hearing him admit it with increasing desperation. It was just about miserable enough to listen to, some nights.

But not this one. "You know what I think about this," he told him.

LaCroix nodded. "I do, I do. Which is why..."

"What?"

"Why I must ask for your assistance."

Nines tilted his head. "Isn't that what this whole thing is about?"

"Not like that. Humour me, would you?"

Nines' grunt was noncommittal, but LaCroix interpreted it as otherwise. He sat up from the sheets, and there was a little more life to his words as he spoke.

"The Kuei Jin's numbers have decreased to the point that I believe they could be flushed from the city in a few months - a broad sweep over the course one night, when I have the forces gathered and the plans in place. If I were to disappear, on that night, few would question it - I would be presumed a casualty of the bedlam, most likely. If there were someone to grant me safe passage, on that night - I don't have protection and transport powerful enough, or of a low enough profile, but _you_ \- you might be able to provide it."

His hand had edged just a little closer, to rest on Nines' forearm, closing the distance from where they both sat upon the bed with a cool, unnaturally soothing touch.

This is what all of those little talks had been leading to, he guessed - what he'd been trying to get out of him for some time now. He was pleading shamelessly through eyes heavy with desperate fear, and as much as Nines knew he should slap his hand away, he didn't want to.

"I'll never trouble you again," he said, finally. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

A gentle smile had crept onto his face, and it was enrapturing... and more than a little hard to say no to. 

Nines jerked back from LaCroix, his cold touch still lingering on his arm.

He began to gather his clothes, pulling everything back into place, not sparing the Ventrue another glance as he redressed fully. He could feel eyes upon him, though, keeping him lingering in the doorframe. 

"I'll think about it," he said, just before he stepped outside.

"Please, do," came that voice in return. Nines shut the door, leaving him where he lay.


	3. Chapter 3

The evening was a bright one, as a full moon glared from empty skies, casting a cold light onto the polished floors of LaCroix's office. A strange energy hummed through the air, something foreboding that ran stronger through his veins with each passing moment. There were no more talks to be had, no more office to be held - only action to be taken, and he supposed that might have been it. It was the buzzing of anticipation, of standing upon the verge of a great change. Things would become simpler after this night; he was sure of it.

The strange air, he realised, might have also been the company that the room was hosting. Several rather grim-looking Kindred stood before his desk, all with a vaguely murderous air that told him they were a touch too close to the beast for him to be comfortable with. And behind them, the most monstrous of all, towered his Sheriff.

He had tasked him with hand-picking his rank's most suitable and discrete assistance for this night - his resources were stretched thin, his most powerful needed for the thorough cleansing his city was to undergo, but he was not foolish enough to risk this alone. He surveyed those presented with a careful eye, finding old bloodstains on ragged clothing, alert eyes darting within shadowed sockets, and sharp fingers that had undoubtedly seen mountains of ash. Rodriguez was more powerful than he had any right to be, but lured to a lonely spot, he did not think that he would provide these Kindred any real challenge for a swift arrest... or, if the night turned in such a way, an easy slaughter. He felt some small tightness in his chest, and dismissed it. 

"Yes, they will do. Go, and wait ahead," he commanded the subordinates.

They followed his direction without question - _a welcome change_ , some bitter voice chimed from the back of his head. But now was not the time for grievances - after this night, he told himself once more, all would change. He stood, approaching his Sheriff as he still lingered with an expectant gaze.

"I want you back here long before sunrise, do you understand? You've half the Kindred of this city beneath your command, so I expect you to make this quick."

The Laibon gave a slow, solemn nod.

"Good. Go, then, and do try to make less of a damned _mess_ this time."

After another bow of his head, the great vampire turned on his heel. His heavy footfalls faded quickly after the door had closed, and the Prince was left alone. He should not have felt the chill that brushed down his spine - this was not a time for dread. He had toiled through the most difficult phases, and now, he only needed to allow things to fall into place.

LaCroix took a few more moments to himself, breathing a steadying sigh and turning to peer at the other towers far below him, bathed in harsh moonlight. As his Sheriff moved to uproot the city's Cathayan infestation, he knew, elsewhere, rather more surreptitious forces were moving to set the Chantry ablaze. 

\---

LaCroix had told him the exact location - a towering car park, not far from his own office or Rodriguez's fetid haunt. It had been easier than he had thought it would be to pull him out here. Enough pleas for his help, enough paranoid sobs - stifled just so that the Brujah would think he was witnessing something devastatingly private - and he had acquiesced. He supposed the idea of even his greatest rival so desperately needing his aid, for his only option to be sweeping him away in that disgusting car of his - it stroked the Anarch's ego, and fit his image well.

The exact floor they were to meet on provided a half-view of the Chantry. The distant destruction had begun with a rich and powerful blast, fading to screams and the wailing of sirens not long after, and now, he could glimpse a thick column of fiery smoke snaking towards the stars. Even after all of his planning, he was unsure of how much damage the Chantry would have actually sustained, odd place that it was, but that mattered little. Regardless of whether Strauss had burned with it, Rodriguez would certainly be brought down - staked and seized as an early suspect in the investigation, the evidence he had carefully scattered in the Brujah's name over these past few months would leave an undeniable trail towards a truce brutally shattered.

The stench of the car park was intolerable, refuse and rusted metal tinted with the faint smell of smoke. When he withdrew his phone to check the time, finding that Rodriguez was not running late just yet, he noted several messages from numbers he did not recognise - rather odd. It was likely only to do with the purge or the Chantry, and could be attended ten or so minutes from now. When this was finished, and his thoughts could settle.

He knew that coming here had not been his most prudent decision. Exposing his allegations against the Brujah, giving this location to a Scourge and simply allowing justice to fall would have worked fine. However, he had told his enforcers to wait, carefully just out of sight, and awaited the Anarch's arrival. It was because of that tightness in his chest, he reasoned, the desire to resolve all of this, given that it would be his and Rodriguez's final conversation. And that, naturally, held any gravitas only due to a need to show him that all of those pathetic words had _not_ been in earnest, to snatch back his dignity somewhere other than the guillotine - yes, that was it. Of course it was.

He heard a faint, sharp cry from some corner of the building - a kine, most likely, but he had little time to reflect on it, as he heard the ring of footfalls. He almost jumped at the noise. His nerves were truly getting the better of him - he steeled himself and raised his chin as the broad figure of Nines Rodriguez emerged from the shadows, his glare stronger beneath the harsh industrial lighting than it had ever been in the hotel room. He did not know how to compose his face, he realised - there was no longer any need for it, but he had become so accustomed to softening his features for him that it was somewhat reflexive.

"You came," said the Brujah, when he was close enough, his eyebrows raised in faint surprise.

LaCroix balked. "Of course I did," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. He realised too, that he did not know what words he wished to share with him, this one last time, even after he had so irresponsibly granted himself the luxury.

Before he could give any, however, Nines strode straight past him, barely looking his way. He looked out to the city, instead, upwards and into the billowing smoke with a pensive furrow to his brow.

"Look at that," he said, voice apathetic. "What do you think, Sabbat? Kuei Jin?"

And so what was this - the moment that he revealed _no_ , the blame lay upon the Brujah's shoulders, as far as history was concerned? He could not quite bring the words to leave his tongue, somehow, and he instead delayed that which would burn everything between them. Hadn't scorching him to embers been the whole point of this affair?

"Most likely," agreed LaCroix faintly. Perhaps he should simply leave, and call his enforcers in without another look at the man.

But then, Nines laughed softly, and though the sound was without mirth, LaCroix felt a stab of shock. He craned his head around to him slowly, his gaze piercing. "You're still going with all of this?"

The Prince blinked. "I- what? What do you mean?"

"It was you."

LaCroix froze, a sudden coldness sweeping through his veins. His mind raced, words coming slowly to his mouth. "I would be... very hesitant, making that kind of assertion," he finally managed to string together.

"That so?" asked the Brujah, his voice still cold and empty. He turned his body back to LaCroix, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, and closer still, sharp shadows cast across him against the bright amber of the streetlights outside.

"Stop," instructed LaCroix as a deep fear began to rear its head. "Get away from me, I will shout - I -" A hand reached out for his body. " _STAKE HIM_!" 

His words echoed through the deserted car park, and he bared his fangs as Nines took a crushing hold of his shoulder, crowding his body against some kine's car and overwhelming him with his presence. Even with his age on his side, he was very suddenly reminded of the brute strength such clans possessed - he allowed the moments to pass without any sudden movements, waiting for the Brujah to be dragged off of him... yet the quiet stretched on, the seconds so _long_ beneath his penetrating gaze. His enforcers-

"Calm down," commanded Rodriguez. "Looks like no one's coming, LaCroix. You're surrounded. Try anything stupid, and you'll be next, you got that?" 

The metal of the car was cool against his legs, pressing at him awkwardly, and Nines' hand was as strong and sturdy as it had ever been - his fear mounted sickeningly with every second as he was confronted with the blazing truth that he was cornered, that he had walked himself into this trap. _No_ , that couldn't be it - there was a reason Nines hadn't simply used his brute force before this point and hacked him to death in the hotel room. He was smarter than that.

"Fine," hissed the Ventrue when his voice returned, any remnants of practised vulnerability cast from his face. "Your mob murdered an underling or two - they were hardly the entire Camarilla. My Sheriff, when he is done gutting every last Cathayan of this city, he will _know_ , they will all know, you'll be as dead as I before sunrise - for your sake, I would advise you stop whatever it is you think you are doing _immediately_."

A cold smirk twisted Nines' lips for a brief moment. "I almost missed seeing you like this."

"Enraged at ridiculous accusations?"

The Brujah let out a disdainful sigh. "Just stop. I know exactly what you were doing - setting me up, right? Fake meetings, using my name, people I know, all that shit, getting Strauss' blood all over my hands."

His eyes widened- what vermin had informed him? He had thought he had struck all weak links from this chain; how foolish of him, to think that Los Angeles had any shortage of traitorous cowards. "You don't even know what you're saying, do you? Murdering my guards and pinning me to the spot is evidence of _nothing_ , save for the fact that you consider trial by combat to be a valid solution to your problems."

Nines cocked one eyebrow. "I've seen the messages you were sending."

LaCroix's mouth fell open, the cold horror crashing onto his shoulders crushing in its weight. "You've been - you were- how _dare_ you?" he sputtered

The Brujah's jaw tightened, nostrils flaring for a frightening glimpse of his rage, stoked as he had not seen it in some time. "Maybe I'd feel bad looking through your shit if I hadn't found a plan for my own goddamn murder. Or if you locked your fucking phone."

The touch of mockery in his tone towards the end was not something that LaCroix could abide - he straightened his spine as much as he could, not allowing himself to cower before the Brujah. "Your story is a terribly interesting one - one that ends with your guilt even to those foolish enough to believe it." He met his gaze without flinching, violently wrenching his vitae for an overpowering burst of his disciplines. "I think what you shall do is dismiss the _company_ that you have brought, follow me back to my office, where we may discuss this, and perhaps I may be convinced to make your execution swift-"

"Sure," said Nines dully, stepping away from him. The relief was a shock, the blinding ray of hope that inundated him - the fool still fell so easily beneath his blood. He stepped away from him, no longer pressing close enough to suffocate. LaCroix drew himself up once more, steepling his fingers in a few seconds of thought as to dealing with this as cleanly as possible. "I've been forwarding your texts, though. Not sure getting rid of me will do you much good."

He blinked, fingertips pressing together as he tensed. "You did what?"

"You think I didn't tell anyone? How stupid do you think I am?" Rodriguez folded his arms over his chest. "I know a guy, a Nosferatu. He... doesn't like you much, said he'd put the word out what was happening before you tried to drag me into this mess."

"You're lying."

"Am I? Got no reason to, at this point. Not all of us get off on it."

LaCroix's phone vibrated within his pocket again, as another cold stab of dread impaled that final shred of hope. He stared at Rodriguez, barely able to believe it, as the implications slowly sank in. 

"So," said Nines, still standing tall and unshakable as ever, "think your _thing_ can fight off every Cammy in this city once he's done with me?"

LaCroix grasped the car behind him, forcing himself to become steady. This _snake_ \- he would have expected this of anyone else, but... ah, but to not expect this of any Kindred was his own mistake. He collected himself and slowly looked upwards, to meet the Brujah's eyes - they were alive with resolute, steely victory.

He would not be defeated without a single word on the matter.

"You planned this perfectly, didn't you? Tell me, Rodriguez, every time you were inside me, was it this exact moment you were imagining - is this as satisfying as you were hoping it would be?"

Vulgar as it was, it was all he could think to spit at him.

The Brujah gave a harsh snarl of a laugh. "What, are you trying to guilt me? Like I can't ask the same of you?"

"I doubt you'll listen to a single word of mine, but I had no choice. You would have no reason to honour our truce for much longer - why wouldn't you seize the next chance to murder me in cold blood? You cannot blame me for needing to get there first, I did not _wish_ to resort to this." The words were flowing freely, too freely - scraped up from the most obscured corners of his mind so that they were tinged with blurred, uncomfortable truth.

"Oh, fuck that. I gave you so many chances to back out."

"And you had many chances to confront me, and stop this before it began. But no, this way, Strauss and I are both swept cleanly from your path." 

"And get sniped on my way out of that fucking hotel? Nah."

"Yes, you had no choice, just as I - and how _convenient_ that it happened like this for you. If you are to kill me, Rodriguez, I would rather not die by the hand of a man so assuredly believing himself better than I."

Rodriguez's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I don't know what the fuck you're trying to imply, but I have done _nothing_ on your scale."

LaCroix gave a humourless laugh. "Give it a century, Rodriguez." 

Was this the end, then? He was still not quite sure if Rodriguez still planned to have his blood drying across this rusted car roof, regardless of the consequences, and with all else so thoroughly ruined, he was more curious than afraid. He could attempt to flee, still, or to fight - yet somehow, what grated down on him above all was the intolerable silence, and whatever words were left unsaid. And so, he spoke once more.

"Why did you come here? Why not just leave me to the vultures you have set on my trail?"

"Why did you?"

He could see his nostrils flare once more as Nines stood over him, lips pressed to a tight line as he stared him down. He flinched away from the hand going heavily to his shoulder, but that did not stop it from tightly grasping him once more - the gun at his hip, thought LaCroix, perhaps he could make a lunge for it, for Rodriguez would certainly outrun him even if he slipped from his iron grip - he felt a deep chill in his bones as the reality of meetings his end within this sodden car park fell upon him very suddenly.

"The Camarilla won't want you, LaCroix, and we sure as hell don't," he said in a steady, clear voice. "I'll give you one night."

He was utterly still, staring up at Rodriguez wordlessly. He was close enough that he could breathe his scent, the one that had become so very familiar.

"One night to get out of this city," he continued, "and if I ever see you again, I'll put you down on the spot. Fuck off and get eaten by the Sabbat somewhere else."

The words churned through his mind, their meaning slowly surfacing to his disbelief. Rodriguez pulled his hand from him to instead ball tightly into a fist at his side, glaring at him through the dark and silence. What was it that the Brujah expected from him - amazed gratitude, his sobbing thanks? He didn't know why some part of him wished to give it. 

He could not, however - his dignity was the one thing he could not afford to lose, at this point. He offered him a tight-lipped smile, despite the bitter nausea trembling through his body, as he took a few tentative steps from Rodriguez. "I see," he said, finally. "Best of luck, then. Continue to seize opportunities like this, and you'll be Prince of the free state before long."

" _Watch it,_ " growled the Brujah. "Don't make me change my mind."

"Of course."

"Get out of my fucking sight."

His tone didn’t leave him much choice in the matter.

The lights of the car park flickered above him, and he was not sure if he heard some motion in the dark distance, or saw some shifting shadow lurking behind one of the corners. His phone vibrated once more. He wondered whether he would be seized by an Anarch brute the moment he stepped outside, whether he would be hunted in the streets. But it would not do to dwell - dwelling was not how he had scraped this far in this world, after all. He turned his thoughts, instead, to what little he still had to rely upon, and how he might drag himself from this wreckage before sunrise.

He left, for whatever awaited him, with Rodriguez's gaze pulling at his back.


End file.
